Man on the Inside

9

Nimm did the paperwork for him, mainly because she couldn't contain her excitement about the idea. "Keep me updated," she told him. "If you text me the moment you sense things have gone wrong, he can't possibly hurt you. Isn't he half your size, anyway?"

Brontë feels like perhaps she was minimising it, but he wouldn't have packed the suitcase that's now sitting in the back of his car if he felt he was truly in danger. Still, he has no choice but to wonder if he'll ever see his children again. You learn to consider every possibility, but seemingly, that only extends to what could go wrong. He's felt every fear he could possibly feel about this, and the hopes of what could go right are vague.

"Thanks, Dad," Charlie says as she steps out of the car. She always thanks him for driving them to school, as if he'd do anything else. "I'll see you on Friday."

Brontë sure hopes she will, but he smiles to cover up that thought. "Enjoy your week. Ricky, you too."

"Hmm?" Ricky looks up from his phone. "Bye, Dad."

Brontë doesn't take it personally. Even though he has no clue if he's about to be brutally murdered and Nimm is going to have to show up at Debbie's door to tell everyone that Brontë didn't make it.

"I love you both!" Brontë calls out, as if he's just forgotten to say it, as Charlie closes the door. He hears both of them respond through the glass, Ricky as he's half-running away, Charlie as she's putting her headphones on.

He thinks about it the whole drive to the airport. He told Art he was going to make his own way there, because he had to drop his kids off at school, and that wasn't a lie at all. It was a helpful side-effect that, as far as he knows, Art doesn't know where he lives. If he did, he might find a way to track that to Brontë's job, and then Brontë's worst fears might be a little bit more real.

Debbie calls him a few minutes out from the airport, and he puts her through to the car's bluetooth. "Charlie just texted to say she left her laptop at your place," she says the moment he picks up. They've never bothered with the hey, how are you nonsense. "When do you get back from work? I'll come pick it up."

"Oh, fuck. I'm- I'm going on a work trip, I can't. I've hid a key in the garden, though, the kids can tell you where it is."

"Oh, great. I'll do that, then. Work trip?"

"Canberra." Brontë bites his lip and hopes he won't need to elaborate. "I'll be back Wednesday. Pretty city, horribly expensive, but it's work's expense, not mine."

"Wish I got work trips," Debbie says with a laugh. "The most scenic view I get is the shabby garden in palliative, next to all the patients who are meant to be appreciating it in their last moments."

There's a pause, and Brontë's about to crack some joke, but Debbie makes it serious before he can. "I'm glad you and Steve got along."

"Yeah." Brontë's mind doesn't let him think, and it surprises him by what it lets him say. "He seems good for you. Like- he puts effort in, you know? You deserve that."

"Oh, Neil-" Debbie begins, and Brontë winces audibly.

"I don't mean it like that." Because he didn't. The sad sympathy in her voice isn't what he wanted. "I genuinely think that, Debbie, I'm just saying- as a friend, I think he's good for you."

He can almost hear her thinking, trying to determine if he's lying to her. He doesn't like to think of himself as a liar. His lies are lies of omission. "Well, thanks. I think so too."

"He kinda pulls off the hot nerd thing," Brontë says, realising only as it's left his mouth how it sounds. "I mean-"

Debbie laughs, and at least she can tell that he's not saying that as any kind of stupid platitude. "Glad you agree on that, too."